Suddenly
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: There was something different. Something unseen and untangible, but at the same time he could feel it engulfing his heart like ocean waves. Something in the dark, quiet, cold house that felt different. It felt warm.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I don't know if this will continue, but I might have some other ideas if I have the time soon to write them. This is only a set of one-shots including Cosette and Valjean, possibly other characters.

Of course, due to the craze following the movie, I'm back on my Les Miserables kick. If I may, I'd like to say here that this is my absolute favorite story ever written. It such an amazing story of redemption, grace, faithfulness, and fighting for the cause of your heart. I've seen it on stage where I live, and in London. Both times were incredbile, and I really enjoyed the movie as well. One of the best film adaptions of a musical ever. Well anyways, on the with the show.

Reviews are lovely.

-O-O-O-

The house was still as quiet as it had been before. The night chill still whispered along the smooth floors. The rafters still creeked and settled, reminding him that there was indeed shelter here, even in the nights when he remembered in sleeping the pulse of a baton against his spine. The place was still as dark as it had been before, only illuminated dimly by a sliver of moonlight through the window panes.

But there was something different. Something unseen and untangible, but at the same time he could feel it engulfing his heart like ocean waves. Something in the dark, quiet, cold house that felt different. It felt warm. Furious and ferocious. Jealous and passionate. There was love here. A feeling that had never so engulfed the spacious interiror of his heart or his home.

The girl had brought it with her. Emptyhanded she had come here, not a stitch to her name. Like a ray of sunshine, like the angels he'd read about in the thick and dusty book at his bedside. She eminated it. It radiated from somewhere within. Somewhere within himself that had years ago gone cold. He longed to know exactly where that light came from. To remember it.

Maybe one day she would invite him in, allow him to share in it. But for now it was hers to keep.

His ponderings were interuprted. Suddenly, like a whisper, there was a scuffle of feet in the hallway. Had the house still been empty, he would've bolted upright to flee. But this wasn't a thud of heavy boots. Only the soft flutter of his angel's feet, so much like the beating of wings.

The doorknob twisted and clicked softly, and he watched patiently as she let herself inside. Two blue eyes pierced the darknesss and there was the light again; the unexplainable light. Her small plump cheeks were lined with wet streams, her tiny lips drawn thin in angst and uncetainty.

Oftentimes, he could see something much older and calloused there in that face. Something had been stiffled in the inn during her stay there. It wasn't always visible, and when it was, it didn't stay too long.

She tarried a moment, clinging to the doorknob, fitting herself against the jamb as if she were ashamed to have come. But all at once, her fear broke and she scurried ahead, at his bedside in a rush.

He sat up now to greet her, his night-shirt glowing in the moonlight like a Bishop's robes, only much more worn and wrinkled. "What is it, my child?" he whispered to her.

She held her new doll to her mouth now, her small lips buried in its synthetic curls, like she was about to whisper it a secret. But her eyes stayed locked on him, scared and shamed.

"I'm sorry. I was frightened," she whispered, and it took several moments to deciefer the sound of her voice from the thin wind outside.

A kind smile tugged at his lips. She was so frail and tiny, so much like a bird in her mannerisms. She could withstand a hurricane but at the slightest whisp of wind she was flitting and fluttering away for shelter.

"What had you frightened?" he asked.

She held her doll closer, burying her tear-stained cheeks against the folds of its dress. "The trees outside my window."

He nearly laughed, but before the sound could leave his chest he was struck with the thought. Her fear, however small, was still a fear. It was no different than fear of shackles or the sharp slam of a jail cell. No more shallow than the scars that circled his wrists as a reminder.

His arms opened wide, and the child wasted no time climbing upon the mattress, burying herself in the folds of his shirt. She was small enough to look at, but even tinier when he held her. He elbows and knees were knobby, pressing, though not uncomfortably, against his ribs as she curled up against him.

"There is nothing to fear, my child. Its only shadows."

She nodded briefly against his shoulder, her blonde curls tickling his chin. Soon enough, she'd relaxed, breathing evenly against him and he knew that she was now sleeping.

He settled her little body against the feather top, pulling the quilt up beneath her chin. She sighed in comfort, tucking her doll in close.

Her hair was soft and clean when he pressed a kiss to her crown. He settled beside her, watching tenderly and closely. This was his only pride, his only fount of redemption. Here. This small, frail child that he'd vowed to raise and nurture. No other creature had brought him such joy or comfort. Who would've known there was still a light inside of him, ignited by such a small spark.

A quick thanks to God above, and he joined the child in the realm of dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: So…saw the movie again for the third time. And I wasn't expecting this to happen, but I couldn't help myself and you are graced with an unexpected update. Happy reading :)

-O-O-O-

His hands were creased and calloused, worn rough from a lifetime of labor. It could hardly be called work. Work was done in justice and was good for the soul. His Bible read that a servant gives willingly, but a slave is forced. For nineteen years, he'd slaved. He'd spent himself at fruitless labor. He'd choked and scrounged for years, as if solitude wasn't enough to atone. As if five years wasn't sufficient to undo his act. But he had been hardened then, and he'd thought that escape was possible.

Whatever the old Bishop had started within him had brought him here. Here to his knees, before a gleaming cross and two sacrosanct candlesticks. His hands folded and refolded, lines familiar along his aged fingers. Greying eyelashes flitted along wrinkled cheeks, and dried lips moved in sought of some answer.

He'd always found things easier here, face to face with his maker. It was strange. The very place he'd turned and ran from for so long was his desired resting spot. He'd been cornered and rerouted here, and wouldn't dare leave now.

Prison was charged to cancel out a man's crimes, but the face of God didn't cancel. The face of God brought hope and promise, and a call to greater—a call which he'd tried his best to keep. Here was grace and rest and peace, and here he would dwell all his days if he was able.

Here, he asked for help. For himself and for the people he encountered daily. He prayed for his workers, for his daughter, and for the poor desolate ones without a warm hearth. He prayed for intervention, that this Savior's hand might move upon them.

As he whispered his final thoughts, warmth of another body nearby broke his concentration. A swift yet tiny voice started beside him. Her whisperings were like the voice of the wind through the mountains of France. Or like the whisp of snow, fragile and fleeting.

If he hadn't known the feeling of her presence so well, he would've dismissed it as a breeze through the open window. But she was here, perched beside him, petticoats in a flourish behind her.

Her fingertips were like ice, yet soft as flower petals when they touched his. He felt his hands open to accept her touch, and her tiny hands pushed between his, nestled there in safety.

In this moment, he chose to peek at her. Her eyes closed in humility and head bowed in reverence. She was but a child yet, only his to keep for a year now. He thought he'd come to know everything about her, and yet he was still surprised every day. What beauty there was in every movement, what grace there was in her gawky childishness. Never before had he seen or loved such a creature.

What would she become? Who would she be? He wondered. What a sight she was, more blessed than any Sister, more precious than a pearl. Here beside him, silent words falling like autumn leaves.

He taught her this very act at her bedside every night. Together they would kneel there, hands clasped together and mutter short, childish prayers he remembered from so long ago. Prayers that were easy and simple for young ones who weren't apt yet to understand the words they spoke. But here she was speaking on her own, lifting whispers as offering. And what a joy. What a thing to behold.

It felt almost as if he were intruding. This moment was only hers. So he turned, shutting his own eyes again. Not wanting to interrupt her, he returned to his own intercession. But it seemed now that all words were lost. No confession or request stood against the saint, muttering her prayers so confidently beside him. He could only lift up a cry of thanks, a cry of rejoice for what he'd seen. And he asked there that perhaps one day he'd have the same grace and humility as the darling child. The greatest homes of heaven above were reserved for such souls.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: A double-shot of sorts. I had two ideas, and both were too short to make single chapters by themselves. Neither of these are related. I'd say that Cosette is younger in the first than the last, but they don't go together at all. All characters are my own, except Valjean, Cosette, Fantine, and young Marius. Enjoy.

-O-O-O-

The woman reached up to him, her fingers weathered and cracked from age. The few coins he placed in her palm glinted in the sunlight, an ironic contrast. He only nodded and smiled at her when she offered her thanks. "Of course, madam. Anything for you and your dear children."

The twin boys clinging to her skirts both smiled up at him, faces dirtied with the grime of the streets. The youngest daughter peeked around her brother's side, hair a mass of tangled black locks. She smiled toothlessly at him, tiny hands gripping her brother's shoulders to boost herself higher to see the face of this man who'd been rumored around the neighborhood as an angel, a martyr.

Her wide brown eyes then fell to the girl behind the man, who had herself pressed safely against the wool of her father's overcoat. Her blonde curls were pinned neatly, falling over her shoulders in golden waves. She looked only a few years older than herself. And what a pretty dress she had. All blues and white lace around the waist and the bodice. She had never seen a dress so fine, so neat and pristine. A strange bubble of shame began in her throat.

But before her eyes landed on the pavement beneath her bare feet, she watched the girl reach into her father's pocket.

The man called out to her for just a moment before releasing her hand.

The girl stared at the dirtied pavement beneath her, limp locks falling into her eyes. She could never have a dress so fine, nor a papa so loving and caring. Their papa had left long ago.

A tiny hand, much similar to her own though much cleaner and porcelain white, offered an open palm. In her hand laid three small bits, all decorated with colored papers twisted on their ends. It took the smaller child several moments to realize that it was candy. Three pieces exactly: for her and her brothers.

Her smile blossomed once more, and she met the girl's clear blue eyes.

The blonde girl's hand pressed toward her. "For you. And your brothers."

She cupped her hands in acceptance, and the three little candies tumbled into her own palms. She clutched them tightly, against her heart, as if the red and blue wrappers were of rubies. Her wide eyes stared back at the girl, stunned, and she smiled.

"What do you say, Elise?" her mother prompted.

She glanced at her before turning back to the young lady before her. "Thank you, mademoiselle."

The child smiled and turned to her father, who was practically beaming.

"Papa," the girl spoke, "Perhaps Elise would also like to have the green dress that is too small for me now?" She turned back to Elise and smiled. "Yes I think it will fit her perfectly. And jackets for the boys as well. It is getting colder."

When Elise glanced hopefully up at the tall man's face, she could've sworn his eyes shone with tears as her smiled down at his daughter.

"Quite right, Cosette. We shall bring the dress and the jackets tomorrow."

He bid goodbye to her mother, and she vaguely heard them exchange words about the dearness of children. While her brothers took their share of the candy, Elise slipped hers into the pocket of her pinafore for later, a token of remembrance of the lovely girl that had so graciously given that day. Such things were rare and precious, to be saved for the proper time and not eagerly devoured.

As she watched the two figures retreat, clasped hand in hand, Elise suddenly felt no more shame, no more resentment. She had seen goodnesss in the world today, and it would come again soon. Now she believed what everyone said about the man and his daughter that had crossed her family's path this day. They were indeed angels from heaven.

-O-O-O-

Cosette was off again, dreaming in her own little world. She often drifted off like this. He wondered sometimes what she thought about. What she was remembering. Did she recall Fantine? Of course. Though it had been a few years since the two were together, Cosette no doubt remembered her mother as she was before her time at the Thenardiers' inn. Valjean would have it no other way. She should remember her mother as she was before: healthy, happy, and smiling. A woman Valjean had never seen. Had never taken the time to notice.

There were times when he could see something flash before her eyes. A longing, or maybe even a memory. A void he could not fill, no matter how good and doting of a father he was.

As they traveled along the street, he tugged at her hand to break her reverie and smile down at her. There was no use letting her dwell on things that could not be. No use letting her wonder on things he could not explain. How he wished he could…

But he could not. Would not. Things were simpler this way.

His own thoughts were interrupted when a woman cried out for his help from a dark corner of the square. She held a hand out, shivering and thin. His thoughts were thrust back to only a few years ago when he found the woman who'd hacked away her soft raven curls, her teeth, and the only memory she had of her daughter in order to survive. He lost his grip on Cosette and moved towards the woman, certain his daughter was trailing behind.

He handed over several coins, and she thanked him graciously.

When he turned back to his daughter, only out of his sight for a few moments, she was gone. Panic rose immediately.

He shouted her name, hoping to be heard above the din in the square. Above the shouts of peddlers and grocers. Above the clang of church bells and children rushing by in a game of chase. He called for her again, pushing several people out of his way. At any other time, he would've apologized politely and tipped his hat. But there was no time.

How careless he had been, letting her go for even a moment in this busy square. He noticed a crowd gathering around a pair of young protestors. The men stood on emptied crates, flashing colored papers at the crowd and proclaiming a coming change in what they called a 'corrupt system.'

There at the edge of the crowd, he saw her mint colored dress, saw the ends of her hair poking from beneath her bonnet.

In three strides, he came behind her and grabbed her shoulder tightly, making her jump and twist to face him. "Cosette! What were you thinking, wandering off like that?"

She opened her mouth to make an excuse, but a strong male voice spoke first. "She belongs to you, monsieur? I've just found these two wandering around alone."

Valjean took in the polished boots first, and the trousers, and the long coat indicative of a policeman. He felt the familiar stir of fear and nearly poised himself to run, his hand still gripping Cosette's shoulder.

But the voice was not familiar, and the face even less so. This was not his jailer. He visibly exhaled, though was still wary of looking the man in the eye.

"Yes…" he began, unsure if the apprehension in his voice was apparent. "Yes she is my daughter."

His eyes were drawn to a boy, Cosette's age, dressed finely in a pair of pressed trousers and a coat, squirming under the police man's strong hand. His unruly brown hair fell into his eyes and he attempted to shrug off the man's hand, to little avail.

"Lucky I found them, really. This crowd is beginning to get out of hand and Monsieur Pontmercy here is quite the trouble maker, isn't that right boy? Can't seem to stay indoors when he's asked." He glared down at the child and shifted his hand to grip the boy's ear.

The boy flinched and pouted, but said nothing.

"You had better watch your daughter more carefully in these streets, monsieur."

Valjean only nodded and glanced at Cosette to ensure she wasn't harmed. But her eyes had never left the boy. He grabbed her hand and deliberately placed himself between the policeman and the boy, leading her off.

"Cosette, that was very wrong of you, running off like that," he said.

She stared down at her shoes while they walked.

He knew she understood that she was in trouble, and would've usually scolded her no further. But the sight of the policeman had troubled him, and he couldn't help himself but to impress upon her how serious this had been.

"Do you understand me?" he said sternly.

She looked up at him in surprise, eyes wide. The tone of his voice and the force in the grip of his hand had startled her. He never spoke to her that way.

Instantly, he regretted it. He slowed the pace of his walk and looked down at her. "I was frightened, Cosette. I could've lost you." Even he heard the helplessness in his voice.

Her eyes became a watery blue and she looked down again. "I'm sorry, Papa."

He released her hand and brought his arm around her, resting his hand on her shoulder. She was getting so big. Almost eleven now, and taller every day.

"Its alright, darling."

She did not say anything else in their carriage ride home, not even about the young boy she'd been standing with in the crowd. Valjean wondered about him. He was not poor; his fine clothes had attested to that. And Pontmercy was a familiar name among the affluent of Paris, though he could not place it. He shrugged off the thought and resolved to let the issue go. The remainder of the afternoon was better spent with Cosette in their garden.

"Papa," she spoke suddenly as they approached the gate of the house.

"Yes?" he answered, releasing the handle of the door.

She smiled, in her bashful way. "I do love you very much."

He could've sworn his heart sprouted wings at that moment. "And I you."

As he exited the carriage and rounded the back to help her step out, he glanced toward the heavens and smiled.


End file.
